


Counterclockwise

by nothingwrongwiththerain



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Also I feel that Anders and Bethany would be friends, Anders is having a really hard time, Angst, Depression/Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I did a horrible thing, I have no idea what Bethany is doing at the Hawke estate, I played this a while ago, I saw this prompt, M/M, Minor Character Death, So much angst, Warning!, about Justice pushing Anders too far, and I know I mucked up the timeline, and I wanted to explore that, and I'm writing it backwards, because why not, cannon divergence I guess?, continuity is not my strong suit, this wont be too long, which I am sure everybody else saw too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwrongwiththerain/pseuds/nothingwrongwiththerain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is trying to get by in a world gone mad with no justice save his own. He just wants to help. But everyone has their limits, and a breakneck pace is exactly that. </p><p>In which Anders needs to learn to accept help and take care of himself; but is doing a very poor job of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Directly Before

He didn’t feel the arrow digging below his ribs anymore, or the arrow in his thigh. Justice had no concept of pain when he manipulated Anders limbs. The staff, too far to reach, was snatched from the dirt. His attacker hesitated fatally. The blast of energy Justice was capable of far outstripped the faltering attacks Anders had been reduced to during the fight. Anders watched, disaffected as a charred hole blossomed in the middle of the archer’s chest. 

Rounding a bend in the path, the child he grappled with moments ago narrowly avoid a second burst of energy, dissolving the pathway in his stead. 

He could hear Hawke shouting his name. Justice answered. The spirits impatience was cutting, Anders couldn’t breathe. Justice didn’t need air, when incensed breathing was cast aside. His voice came from an older place, echoing and lost. Quickly, Justice’s rage was the last force holding Anders in place, his body was numb. Hawke was yelling but nothing filtered through the blind rage Justice had for everything: Anders failings in particular. 

Anders wondered if Justice would let him die, in spite of the consequences. The inevitability sparked doubt, sparked fear. Justice dispersed as rapidly as one emptied a bucket, tipping heavily and draining sharply. Cold receded with needlepoint precision, tracing ice along his skin and every bruise, scrape and sliced skin from the fight and fights before flared. Anders gasped, choking on air, and collapsed into Hawkes arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm experimenting with writing backwards. It's not necessarily intuitive, but the plot will catch up to itself eventually.


	2. 5 Minutes Prior

Hawke heard Anders cry from down the hill, unnervingly distant. Slamming the pommel of his sword into his opponents face, Hawke hurriedly took in the carnage he and Fenris had wrought. 

The men littering the path were in stages of death and mortal injury, posed no threat as he swung his blade over his shoulder and ran back up the hill.

Hawke nearly ploughed Varric over in his haste. 

“Wait,” the dwarf cautioned. “Blondie’s not himself.”

“What?” Hawke slowed as he searched for Anders, blue lightening crackled. “Anders!” 

Ignoring Varric’s warning Hawke rushed closer, skidding as Justice turned on him, training his staff on Hawkes chest. 

“Justice!” Hawke shouted. “The fight is over.”

“The fight is never over.” Justices voice resonated the air, sparks spat from Anders staff. 

“This one is,” Hawke insisted, eyes flying over the mage. “Anders is hurt. Let him be for now.” 

Justice didn’t spare a glance for the arrow jutting from his side, stride unaffected by the shaft in his leg. Hawke nervously watched the stains spread as the sprit shifted restlessly. 

“He is weak, incapable,” the sprit muttered, pacing as if caged. “He is not enough.”

“He is trusted,” Hawke tried to keep his voice level. Behind him, Varric stopped Fenris with a few sharp words. “Justice, you need him. You are both committed to the fight. Now,” Hawke stepped closer, leaving his sword in the dirt. “Let him go.” 

Justice shook his head roughly, growling. “This is unacceptable.”

“Justice,” Hawke said, now within arms reach. “Killing Anders is not justified. It’s murder.”

Hawkes words had an immediate effect. Justice shuddered and the light splitting Anders skin flared blindingly. The moment white light blinked from the mages eyes, Anders knees gave out. 

Hawke caught him as he fell, dropping with Anders to the ground. Anders was shaking, body trembling with every shuddering breath. Weak panting aside, he was nearly limp in Hawkes arms.

He had reached his limit, could barely feel Hawkes hands holding him, hardly hear the warrior’s soft words in his ear. 

“Shhh,” Hawke loosened his grip to keep from crushing the arrows between them. “You’re okay.” 

Anders was impossibly tired, could feel consciousness blurring with every panicked breath. He wanted to apologize, but even that slipped away.

The warrior was ready when Anders went limp, head dropping heavily on Hawke’s shoulder. As carefully as he could, Hawke rolled the mage off his injured side to rest Anders head in his lap.

“Does anyone have a healing potion?” his voice strained. Running his hand along Anders neck, he waited gently for the pulse point. Hawke was distracted by Varric and Fenris digging through their pockets; time stretched painfully and the beat was there. 

“Sorry Hawke,” Varric sighed. “I got nothing.” 

Expectation turned to Fenris. The elf’s expression bordered on unreadable. 

“Well?” Hawke prompted, glancing up briefly from his inspection of the arrow protruding from Anders side.

“I have one.” 

Hawkes shoulders relaxed some. “Good. That wont fix this but,” Hawke bit his lip, half talking to himself. “It can’t hurt. Buy time to get him off the coast. We should send someone ahead to fetch Bethany. Fenris?” 

Fenris hadn’t moved. 

“Uh, Hawke?” Concerned wove across Varric’s tone. 

“What?” 

“Broody here can’t run.” 

Hawke stopped fussing with Anders coat, paused to take in where Fenris was propped against a boulder. The rock was painted with a swath of red where the elf’s hip rested on the stone. 

“Oh Maker,” Hawke scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“Hardly life threatening,” Fenris intoned, “but I will be...hindered.”

“Look, it’s not that complicated,” Varric said. “Half to Broody and he returns for your sister, half to Blondie to keep him from bleeding out. Unless you want me to start jogging.”

“That’s– yes,” Hawke nodded absently, worry creasing his face. “Fenris, is that alright with you?” 

“I don’t appear to have a choice,” Fenris said dryly. Hawke opened his mouth, Fenris cut him off. “I agree with the dwarf.” He popped the lid off the glass vial he had twisting in his fingers, threw back a swallow and passed the remaining potion to Varric. 

Shaking his leg out as the gleam of magic slithered down the gash, Fenris hid his blade between the rocks. Another stretch, repositioning of a dagger, and he was ready. 

“Thank you,” Hawke said as Fenris passed. 

Fenris paused. “Promise me,”

“What’s that?” 

“You won’t let the Abomination use him. If Anders dies, you kill Justice.” 

Hawke didn’t respond; Fenris remained rooted firmly in place. 

“Gentlemen, we don’t have an overabundance of time,” Varric announced loudly. His comment broke Hawkes hesitation.

“Fine. Just go.” 

Fenris left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have warned you, these are short little snippets


	3. 15 Minutes Prior

Their plan was unimaginative at best. Hawke favored a direct approach when it came to bandit hunting. Anders had seen the marks Aveline hastily scratched on their map, Hawkes intention to use them as checkpoints on a crusade of destruction instead of setting up a counter ambush wasn’t surprising. 

When the first three men came crashing down the hills of the Wounded Coast, irritation cast a shadow over any combative drive. Then another, and another – nuisance evolved as a man dodged his hexing twice. Anders answering firestorm might have been overkill, but he was too tired to care. One more incantation pulling elements together, intensifying how heavy his staff was, blurring his vision. 

Not ten feet up the path, the warriors were in their element. Anders could make out Hawkes laugh above the din of clashing steel, a hint of a smile had started to tug on the mages lips when Fenris failed to deflect a blow. A thin bone in his forearm cracked. Anders felt the hairline, phantom pain through the wavering connection he kept with all of them when fighting broke out.

Closing his eyes, Anders grunted as Fenris continued to fight. Pushing against the shriek of pain, the mage rushed healing magic out, across space and around the break, with an intensity he never could capture in the clinic. The bone set, clicking together. Anders clung to his staff as he fell back into himself, dizzy. 

Blinking hard, he watched Hawke and Fenris turn down the next steep trail, Varric an incandescent shimmer on their tail. Distracted, Anders was unprepared for the sloppy, broadsided strike that slammed across his shoulders. 

Anders shouted and hit the ground hard, knees slamming into the packed earth. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his staff roll out of reach. Without a conduit his burst of shield magic couldn’t hold form, but Anders desperation knocked his assailant back a few steps.

Stumbling to his feet, Anders barely had time to grab the bandits arm as he swung again. The kid was off balance, wielding a blade far too tall for him. If any of his attacks had been proper blows, Anders would have been dead already. Instead, the mage was grappling with a child over a broadsword. 

They made eye contact over the tangle of arms, feet shuffling in the dirt. Anders jaw locked, he wished they hadn’t. Shifting his weakening grip, Anders grabbed at the boy’s shoulder, felt for the weakness he knew was there. Tugging viciously, assisted by a second poorly directed barrier, Anders dislocated the shoulder he set in his clinic the previous night.

The kid didn’t shout; a short gasp and his blade hit the ground. Anders lurched back, Justices rage waking and coiling under his skin. _–Ungrateful, foolish, last mistake–_ Anders fought to regain control. He was dimly aware of the irony, should have known that running an underground clinic would lead to this, eventually. Justice was less forgiving. 

The boy was a few feet distant, holding his arm, eyes startled. 

“Leave,” Anders hissed, out of breath. “Now.”

The boy turned and fled. 

Anders reprieve was met with an arrow. From directly behind the boy, an archer crouched. He sent the shaft flying as his human shield ran away.

The arrowhead notched directly below Anders ribs. For a precious second, Anders felt nothing. Pain arrived in crashing waves, first the lancing split of skin, then shifting, tearing underneath as he gasped. Anders wavered on his feet, leaning forward, tilting dangerously. 

_–Useless, weak, failure–_

“Hey Blondie, you alright?” 

Anders heard Varric, from behind; the dwarf couldn’t see the archer directly in front of the mage. It was too late, too much. Anders was so very, very tired. 

_–Incapable, insignificant, you are not enough BUT I AM–_

With Justice shouting in his head and the arrow digging deeper in his side, he couldn’t tell where the noise stopped and the pain began. A breath was caught in his throat, blue fissures splintering his skin. 

Anders couldn’t hold against the dispassionate clawing of Justices rage for long. A second arrow joined the first, piercing his leg, and Anders lost control.


	4. That Morning

“Anybody home?” Hawke ruffled the front flap of Anders tent. “Varric’s got the fire lit.” Without a response, Hawke crouched and entered. “Anders?”

Curled tightly at the furthest end of the tent, the mage remained blissfully unaware of the intrusion. Hawke smiled fondly. Sleep was a rare instance Anders looked his age. With his face relaxed, Anders could almost pass for a younger man. The bruising circles under his eyes betrayed him, but without the shadow of constant suspicion Anders didn’t appear quite so haunted.

Carefully, Hawke brushed Anders loose bangs out of his eyes. “Wake up,” the warrior said quietly, resting his hand on the side of the mages neck, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. 

Anders let out a long sigh and burrowed deeper under his threadbare blanket. 

“I’m afraid you’re going the wrong way,” Hawke said, waving at the tent flap.

“No.” Anders reply was muffled. “You are.” 

Hawke chuckled. “Perhaps,” he teased. “First, coffee.” 

Anders muttered something unflattering and kicked off the blanket.

“Sleeping in your traveling clothes now?”

Anders shrugged. “Saves time.” 

“Mmhm,” Hawke said, tucking Anders messy hair behind his ear as the mage stilled. “If you say so.” Anders pressed his face against Hawkes palm, resting his chin heavily on Hawkes hand. 

The warrior was unconscionably warm in spite of the predawn air leaking into the tent. Touch starved, even Hawkes hand was enough to make him feel safe.

“Are you sure you’re well?” 

On the cusp of drifting off, Anders flinched and snapped his head back rigidly. 

“Whoa,” Hawke caught his shoulder, steadying him. “It’s alright. Just me.”

“Sorry,” Anders flushed, felt the tug of fatigue already tightening around his chest. How long had he sat there? He hadn’t meant to. _–Weak–_

“I– lets go,” he stammered, picking a tie from his pocket and fumbling with his hair. 

Hawke gave him a curious look, then conceded, crawling out first. Anders followed, stretching, grogginess in conflict with the sharp morning air. Sharing a nod with Varric, Anders helped himself to the coffee and promptly fell asleep propped up by the fire. 

Fenris grumbled, but Varric only laughed and helped Hawke fold up the mages tent. Fenris stowed their gear up the tree Hawke nearly fell out of; Varric woke Anders with a nudge and waved off his apologies as he put out the fire. 

“It’s not a bother, Blondie,” Varric repeated for the third time as Fenris and Hawke returned to the deconstructed camp. “Gangs all here then.” 

“Excellent!” Hawke said, bouncing off Anders as he passed by. “Whose ready for some bandit hunting?”


	5. Two Mornings Prior

Anders paused in front of the door to the Hawke estate. Hawke invited him to meet before their trip to the coast, for breakfast. A meal traditionally served in the morning. The mage glanced around at the grey swirls of architecture, the faintest hint of dawn begging to encroach on darkness. Technically, it was morning. 

Frowning, Anders tried to come up with someplace close he could nap and wait out the last of night. The clinic was all the way in Darktown. By the time he reached a bed he’d have to return. Varric left a standing invitation at the Hanged Man, but even the roundabout trek to Lowtown sent his knees aching.

Anders knew better than to run back to back to back nights in the mage underground, but Templars had increased patrols tenfold, filling makeshift prison cells with novice mages frantic to be released. And he had done exactly that, round the clock rescues that increasingly degraded into conflicts and sprinting matches between his work in the clinic. 

Yet it was the little things that dogged the mage. While Anders grew accustom to keeping his bearings in the tunnels, he lost any concept of time after hours of the splashing dark. What he did needed to be done, but Maker, it played havoc on a proper sleep schedule. He’d been subsiding on naps for a week at least, was caught off guard when he crawled out of a side passage down the road to find more darkness instead of sun. In perfect honesty Anders wasn’t sure he even had the right day. 

In a half second of daring, Anders knocked on the door, courage tainted by the faintness of his knock. Hesitation cracking, Anders stepped back, rubbing at his eyes. Of course not, he wouldn’t actually put effort into bothering Hawke. 

That weary conviction nearly jumped him out of his skin when the door cracked open. 

“Hello?” 

“Um, yes. Hi Bethany.” 

The younger Hawke sibling was peering through a crack in the door, swung it wide at the sight of another mage. “Anders!” The grin was genuine, uncaring of her sleep mussed hair. She led him in, scolding him for not knocking louder. 

“You’re always welcome,” she said, passing him a steaming mug. Apparently is was early by Bodahn’s standards as well, they had the kitchen to themselves. Anders took a sip gratefully, burning his tongue.

“You know Hawke won’t let you tag along if your bleeding.” 

“What?” Anders blinked under her casual scrutiny. 

“You missed a bit.” She rounded the counter, peering at his neck. “Don’t touch it!”

Anders froze as she prowled past, precise steps bringing her directly behind him. Her fingers moved slowly, parting feathers. “It’s just there – ooh, Anders,” she tutted. “You really need a mirror. Self healing is a pain without. Now,” she tugged at his sleeves. “Coat off.”

Anders consented without a fight, standing and pulling a few straps free. He hadn’t noticed the pain, but the lyrium potions he downed following the third night raid in a row dulled some sensations and colors.

Bethany harrumphed, kicking his chair aside for better access as she peeled his coat free from the dried blood smeared on Anders neck. He towered over her, she had to stand on tip toe as she worked the coat free. The material folded into the crease of skin caught, fresh blood welling. Anders winced. 

“Mmm,” Bethany pursed her lips behind his back as she laid his coat on the counter in a feathery heap. “Shirt off too.” 

There wasn’t reason to hide, but he hesitated. He had been in a number of skirmishes the past weeks, and Bethany was correct – self healing was difficult.

Her fingers stilled at the hem of his shirt. “Anders?” 

“I–” he pressed his lips tight as Justices grumbling chilled his spine. Slowly, he let air hiss out between his teeth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bethany said fondly. “I take it Justice doesn't care for receiving help?” 

“Not terribly,” he admitted quietly. His hand came to a rest on the counter, trying to ground the echoing in his mind. Before, Anders would have been surprised, but as of late he came to accept Bethany’s astuteness. 

“Well, I would ask Justice to consider trusting a fellow mage as a sign of solidarity. Boost morale for the cause. I’m sure I read that in your manifesto somewhere. Fifth page?” she hazarded a guess. 

Faint surprise from the spirit offered Anders enough space to respond. “I thought you were against the revolution.”

“I am,” Bethany said, “but I like the part about mages working together to support each other and challenge false assumptions.” 

“It’s funny,” Anders said, staring down the counter, finger tracing a whorl in the wood. “I never hear those words out loud.” 

“Then you should visit more,” Bethany offered. “We can clear out the wine cellar and talk politics till Justice is sick of it.”

Her optimism startled a laugh out of the weary mage. “Perhaps we should. Though you may be in for more than you bargained for. Justice does not tire easily.” 

“I’ll take that challenge,” Bethany affirmed, “but first is first. My brother’s got it in his head Aveline will warm to him if he clears the coast of bandits, and you’re still bleeding.” Her voice dropped from matter of fact to something kinder. “Please take off this disgusting shirt.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Anders quipped as he reached. “Speaking so lowly of the only other shirt I own.”

“It shows,” Bethany intoned. “Be careful!” 

She took over Anders fumbling attempts to disentangle from his shirt as the cut stretched, blood dripping. Anders hadn’t expected the pain to be so bright when he stretched to escape the shirt. He gasped, eyes watering as the kitchen darkened a shade. Bethany tugged the material over his head quickly. 

“Anders.” She caught his shoulders as he tipped precariously. 

“Hey.” Her voice bled back into focus. “I’d rather not explain to my brother why his favorite activist is unconscious in the kitchen before sun up.” 

“Sorry,” Anders managed, pressing a palm to the counter top to slow his swaying, skin stinging. “We couldn’t...couldn’t have that.”

“No. We can’t. Can you stand?” 

Not entirely confident, Anders nodded. 

“Great.” Bethany let go and the ground dipped traitorously. Moving quickly, she dragged the nearby chair closer and positioned the back of the chair to the side.“Here.”

He landed in the chair harder than he meant to, Bethany’s guiding hands sliding along his arms. 

“There. Now,” Anders could hear the uncertainty in her voice as the room swam. “Where to start.” 

“I’ll leave it up to you,” Anders said hoarsely. He’d kept his arms low for a day or three – small wonder his shirt had been bloody and sweat stained as it was – hadn’t reached for anything but magic, quills and lyrium potions. 

“Your trust is flattering,” Bethany said, “but I’m still learning. I’m afraid you’re my practice.”

Anders almost shrugged, though better of it for his shoulders. “Fine by me.” He waited for a second as Bethany hovered. A small trill of alarm woke in his empty stomach. “Any questions?” 

“Oh, I have questions,” Bethany said, sinking Anders heart a few inches, “but those can wait. Although– wait,” she huffed a short sigh. “Say– say hypothetically, if you had a patient with multiple, half healed injuries–” 

Anders hunched lower, guilt heavy on the heels of his alarm. He felt increasingly exposed without his shirt on. His coat was excellent at hiding the weight he had been losing, without that or a shirt the dips between his ribs were dishearteningly prominent. 

“–would I start by closing open wounds, or,” Bethany stopped again, chewing her lip. “Or something else?”

Anders remained quiet. Fear and panic were melting into shame and his cheeks burned with it. 

“Anders,” Bethany moved around the chair, crouching down. “I’m not blaming you, but I don’t know, I haven’t– Oh Anders.” She reached up to gently smudge the tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

His face was too hot, and the voice in his head could find no evidence to support Bethany’s soothing. _–Incompetent, unprepared, foolish–_

With a cut off sob Anders slapped a hand over his mouth, curling in on himself, Justice’s disgust raging in his skull.

Anders didn’t have the wherewithal to form an expectation, yet when Bethany left he could feel the disappointment, a sharp snag beneath his heart. 

But she hadn’t gone far. The muted glow of healing magic danced in Anders peripheral. The faint pushing of magic through skin and blood was familiar and not. Each mage channeled a different level or layer of energy. Bethany was young, but not as inexperienced as she feared. Her fingertips traced poorly closed gashes and her magic pushed with feathered brushstrokes. 

Unlike Anders hasty work earlier, when he shoved a wave of resigned intent across his back, her precision served a better, if incomplete result. Her intent let her deeper into the hurt, knitting skin, directing blood gently, encouraging healing with her belief, her want. She had a general grasp of what she wanted, missing the technical expertise deeper wounds required. 

Tears were pooling, but not for the pain. A mages intent was as important as their ability; spells fueled by strong emotions were more complete. Bethany wanted to help, and her empathy was a concept Justice had taken to violently disregarding.

She cared, and that was a different sort of pain. A longing, a loss, a desperation for the bare minimum physical contact of her fingertips tracing the patterns of destruction mapped across his back. Even her half healing was better than the results Anders accomplished while he was constantly reminded he wasn’t worth anything, wasn’t enough, didn’t deserve to feel good while others suffered at the hands of tyranny. 

She cared and it hurt. It was overwhelming, her capacity to care. 

“There, finished. Well, almost.” Anders hurriedly scrubbed at his face, but Bethany wasn’t bothered by his damp eyelashes as she dropped a rag in the sink. 

Gentle as she was, Anders locked his jaw, breath catching when she passed the wet towel over his back to mop off the thin trails blood. 

“Come on. I’ll find you a shirt.” 

Anders let out a shaky breath and took her offered hand, small and easily enveloped in his own. He didn’t bother with eye contact. 

She led him to a hall he hadn’t been down, pushed past the door to her chambers and sat him on the edge of her bed. 

“I steal his old shirts,” Bethany explained, digging through a wardrobe vigorously. “They’re comfortable,” she insisted, as if Anders had protested. 

Anders sat very still. Reality was a touch out of focus. Justice had calmed, impossibly, during Bethany’s attempt at healing leaving his mind abruptly blank. Quiet was not unprecedented, but a ringing contrast to the past weeks of constant grumbling. Anders felt unbalanced and unprepared to handle the level of autonomy suddenly thrown at him. Without the disapproving he was merely...empty. 

“Here! This ought to fit. Maybe,” Bethany held up the button down shirt skeptically. “Bit big, but it’ll do.” 

Anders unhunched gingerly, let Bethany pull the shirt up each arm as he concentrated on breathing. Her work on his back had closed the open gashes, smoothed scabs, but bruising from her pinching of his skin would spread soon, and blood lost could not be replaced. Fatigue also was not easily displaced. If anything, amateur healing left the patient wearier than before. 

Head bowed, he watched her thread each button, putting the fastenings in place to cover his narrow chest. 

“There.” Her fingers pushed the final button in place, but she didn’t let go. Anders heaved another breath, feeling a weight draw his shoulders in. 

“Anders...” her voice was soft. “You don’t have to do this alone.” Bethany punctuated her words with a small tug of his collar. Anders swallowed, hard. No comment from Justice. No nothing. Screaming silence. 

“You’re not alone.” 

For a moment, the awful pull in his chest felt it might split, that the seams would finally give and every insecurity would tear him apart. Then it stopped. _–She is wrong–_

_–You are alone–_

Who he was, what he was snapped back into focus. Anders shook his head, let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

“You’re right. Yes. Of course.” Anders patted her hand clumsily. He forced his eyes up, tweaked his mouth to the approximation of a smile. 

Bethany regarded him with a bit more than worry.

“I’m just tired,” Anders added hastily. 

“Right.”

“Honest,” Anders insisted, giving her hand a squeeze. “Would I lie?” 

“In a heartbeat.” Bethany said. Anders eyes widened, she didn’t– “but I won’t push. On one condition.” She tweaked his collar. 

“Yes?” Anders asked weakly. 

“You stop here after this raid and let me check you out. Better yet, stay the night so I know you'll have a few hours of rest.” 

Anders was nodding before she finished. “Of course.”

“Good then,” Bethany released the front of his borrowed shirt. “Then let’s try our hand as breakfast. I’m starved.” 

Anders smiled at her, grateful. There were some things he couldn’t share. But he appreciated the help. Even Justice grudgingly came around as Bethany began dismantling the pantry. They were halfway through a dubious pancake recipe neither of them could remember in its entirety when a horrified Bodahn arrived and drove them from the kitchen. 

They spent the rest of the early morning in front of the fire. Bethany recovered her (highly illegal) books on magical practices from beneath a planter and begged Anders to go over more complex healing spells with her. Her intent was blatant, but so was her determination. Anders spent an hour offering his own experiences with internal injuries, and was pleasantly surprised at Bethany’s eagerness to help him in the clinic, though he discouraged her from visiting while he was gone. 

Once and only once breakfast was ready did anyone attempt to rouse Hawke. Notoriously overly-cheerful in the morning, Bethany and Anders shared disparaging looks as the oldest Hawke sibling bounced around. To Anders preference, Fenris didn’t arrive until right before they were about to leave. As the three of them exited the estate to meet Varric in Lowtown, Bethany made a point to grab Anders on his way out. 

“We have a deal, yes?” 

Anders smiled, tired but honest. “Yes.” 

“Excellent,” her grin was self satisfied as ever. “See you in a few days. Do take care of them.” 

“Of course,” Anders said, hurrying to catch up. 

“And yourself!” Bethany called. 

Anders waved his assent and disappeared around a cobbled corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning this was supposed to be the end, but now I have guilt. More to come.


	6. Directly After

Anders gagged, coughing on the liquid warming his throat. It fizzled with a familiar intensity, sickly sweet and burning on his tongue. A hand roughly clamped his jaw, stopping him from spitting the potion out. 

He couldn’t breathe. He scrabbled uselessly but the hands holding him down were stronger than his weak protests. Anders back arched and the world shrunk to a gouging, white hot point in his side. 

Blinding pain was distraction enough for his throat to work reflexively around a swallow, the effect was immediate. Warmth, faint buzzing like the grey feeling of a limb cramped too long traced the ridged, immobilizing bar in his side. 

Pain, driving consciousness back with triumphant claws, receded reluctantly. The hand pressing his jaw moved to his shoulder quickly. Anders first breath degraded into coughs, threatening to undo the potions effect as the arrow in his side lurched with him. 

"Hold his legs." 

A strict male voice, out of focus, bounced around in his head like an echo in a cave. 

Anders couldn't place the voice, couldn't place the sand shifting under him, or the vapid, cloud smeared sky lining the horizon, or the gaping hole, void in his head the quiet, unending, misplaced. He couldn't move, he couldn't escape. He had no control. 

Anders tried to shout, his protests came out a hoarse whisper.

"Stop. Get off-" 

"Anders. You're safe, it's alright. Please stop struggling." 

He didn't feel safe. He felt trapped, empty. 

Hawked face appeared, attached to the strong arms holding him. 

"It's just me."

"Oh."

Anders mind skipped, ran a loop over the words spoken that morning. Just Hawke. He let the certainty of the warriors presence drip through him, collecting as the last inkling of resistance drained.

Gradually, reality coalesced to something meaningful. He was propped against a rock, feet extended in front. Varric was crouched by his knees, regarding him with the same critical worry. 

Anders dazedly glanced between the warrior and the rouge, opened his mouth to question and drew a halting breath over the answer. He winced, glancing down. 

" _Oh._ " 

"Fenris has gone to fetch Bethany." Hawke said. He hadn't removed his hands. Anders leaned into his touch without thought, blearily examining the arrows protruding from his leg and side. 

"Can you heal...?" The sentence trailed off, unsure. 

Anders closed his eyes and tried to take a steadying breath. The air expanding his lungs caught as he reached for a cast. Magic, already sluggish and balanced out of reach, neatly evaporated as a new bout of coughing brought up blood. He could feel the metallic slick on his lips, tried to clear it with a swipe of his tongue before Hawke saw. 

“That’s a no then,” Varric said, settling on his haunches. “Hang in there Blondie.” 

Anders winced again. If he were stronger...

For once, Justice didn’t complete his self deprecation. Justice had no comment at all. Justice wasn’t–

A smattered seconds of panicked gasping later and the spirit stirred. Hawke was gripping him tightly again, Anders retreated inside himself to find Justice amid the mire of pain and fatigue. 

Holding his eyes open was rapidly too much effort. Grasping at the bare minimum outline of the sprits presence, Anders found none of the righteous anger he expected. Justice had wound tightly in a pocket of his mind, impervious to Anders vague questioning. 

Before his world faded once more, a feeling resembling guilt trickled down his spine. Then it was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, I had a week and this was all that happened. The story is trying to go in many directions at once. 
> 
> Apologies for the brevity, but now there are 10 chapters instead of 6. That's not a bad thing, right?


	7. 5 Minutes After

The second bandit attack was weaker. A ragtag collection of boys playing at men found an end on the blade Hawke wielded with a brutality uncommon. Varric raised an eyebrow, but said nothing of the man at his feet cleaved nearly in half as Hawke returned to Anders side. The mage hadn't stirred during the fight. 

“We can’t stay.” Hawke sounded uncertain. “Varric?”

“Couldn’t agree more,” the dwarf confirmed. “You have a plan?” 

“These men likely came from the alcove east of here, up the hill. It would be more defensible than the road.” The warrior ran a hand distractedly through his hair, sweat sticking his dark bangs off to the side. “Thoughts?”

“How are you planning on moving Blondie? Won’t be easy.”

“We’re worse off in the open. Perhaps the bandits have a share of stolen potions.”

“That’s a big if Hawke.”

“I am aware,” Hawke said, grunting as he dragged a gutted body away from Anders slumped form. He shoved it off the rim of the pathway with more force than was strictly necessary. “But I’ll not leave him.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Varric assured, hooking a thumb on his belt. “I’ll scout ahead, won’t take long.” Hawke made a vague noise of assent, returning to his self-imposed task of clearing the road with gusto. Varric turned, but did not leave. 

“He is right, you know.”

“Who?” 

“Fenris.”

Hawke took a deep, deliberate breath. “Varric–”

The dwarf waved him off. “I know, I know. But it bears repeating. Hesitation on a night like this will end badly. Do you really think we can fight Justice by ourselves?” 

“It won’t come to that.” 

Varric sighed. “I hope so,” he said, muttering to Bianca as he moved out of earshot. “For all our sakes.” 

Hawke pretended not to hear. Shooting another ungrateful look at the magnificent sunset blooming on the horizon, he roughly scrubbed the sand and blood from his palms. Evidence of the fight was now minimal. In a few minutes he reduced a heap of cutthroats to uneven footing and tracks where he dragged them, tracks already shifting into new patterns as wind tousled the sand playfully. 

Hawke closed his eyes, felt his mind stretching thin. First Fenris, hardly a surprise. Now Varric. He needed to work out a plan, a way to move Anders, but it was all he could do not to panic. He nursed the ache to fight; halfway wished another group would stumble over them. He needed a new target for the frustration, an outlet for anger to blur the fearful truth: he had no clever way to save the man he loved.

Shaking his head, Hawke turned and found himself face to face with Justice.

Hawke swallowed an exclamation, eyes darting briefly to his stained broadsword stuck in the dirt, then back to Justice. He was nearly toe to toe with the spirit, could see for the first time how Justice’s sight was not one shade of white light, but many blindingly overlaying Anders’ amber eyes. 

The spirit made no move, but something was different. Anders was not held with the fluid grace Justice usually commanded. He was favoring Anders' injured side, fingers wrapped around the arrow where it met his skin to keep it from shifting, balancing more weight on his hosts good leg.

Hawke waited. A single minute passed with the weighted speed of an age before Justice spoke. 

“Anders is alive. He requires aid.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, seizing the opportunity. “Justice, you have to help him. We don’t have the means to heal him, and Anders won’t last with wounds like these.”

“I am... not enough.” The admission was wrested from the air, unwilling syllables strung together in a halting grumble. “I am capable of bolstering Anders' casting... complex spells. I cannot work them alone. Therefore, I require... assistance.” 

Hawke read the discomfort he hadn’t known a spirit could feel and abruptly decided to use it. “What can you do?”

Justice frowned. “You need him moved.”

“Not at the expense of his injuries.” Hawke said sharply, wondering faintly how far he could take this before he was reduced to ash. “Are you capable of feeling pain?” 

The storm brewing in Justice's eyes flickered, blue lighting skittering across Anders' torso in short bursts. “I am aware of pain, but a spirit is not hindered by such trivial–”

“Anders isn’t a spirit.” Hawke said vehemently. “If you hadn't treated him as such, Anders wouldn't be suffering.” 

Justice looked as chagrined as an otherworldly entity possessing a mage could. “No, he is not. I have...” another stutter of light, shake of Anders head. “I have made an error.” 

“You said you were aware of pain,” Hawke started. “Is Anders in pain now?” 

“Yes.”

“Could he stand without you?”

The spirit contemplated. “For a short time, it is possible. With assistance.” 

“Fine.” Hawke said. “Leave me with him, and if you must, help him reach the alcove up this path. Do not use him to fight, he will not survive. Do you understand?”

Justice nodded, shifting awkwardly as Hawke moved closer to loop the mage's arm over his shoulder and get a hand around his waist, below the arrow Justice clutched at. 

“Alright,” Hawke said. “I need to speak with Anders.” He paused, eyes level with the spirit's gaze. 

Justice didn’t fade. “If you cannot save him, what will you do?”

“What I have to.” 

“And what is that? What can you do?”

Hawke narrowed his eyes, Anders arm heavy across his shoulders. Sweat was trickling along the mages brow, over a fresh scrape on his cheek. Hawke longed to touch, to comfort.

Instead, he responded as best he could. 

“I can destroy you.”

“You can try.” 

With that, Justice left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I lied before I said weekly but I am experiencing a struggle and several 13 hour shifts. I promise updates by the weekend. Sorry for the delay


	8. 15 Minutes After

The arrow slid higher, puncturing a lung. It was the only way Anders' stutter stopping mind could explain the blood wetting his lips, sticking to the back of his throat. Could have shifted when Hawke dropped him in this new alcove, must have, but he didn’t remember standing. 

Rain, hungry and fast to approach, began picking away at the sand around him. Fat droplets devoured bare patches, slipped in creases of Anders jacket.

Fingers tacky with warm blood and cool rain, Anders didn't try to catch his breath. There wasn’t time. No more than 10 paces from where he knelt, steel was clashing. Men’s voices continued to jeer and shout nonsense where Hawke had them bottlenecked, where the warrior was increasingly outnumbered. 

Grip tightening on the arrow shaft, Anders grit his teeth and gave another shove. Pain from his leg was thrown wayside, the notched point he was ramming through his side was all he could know. Darkness greater than the black clouds folding around the Wounded Coast faded in and out. 

He couldn’t. Couldn’t do this. Hawke soon to be surrounded, Varric slumped from a blow to the head beside, they needed him and he couldn’t get the damned arrow out. Pulling back would accomplish nothing more than the arrowhead snagging on his insides, he had to push it through. But he couldn’t. 

_-You will do this-_

A series of racking coughs brought strings of hot, red spittle clumping at the corners of his mouth. Anders spat weakly, watched as the thick blot was eaten by rain in a matter of seconds. 

_-You must do this. Or die-_

Maker, Justice was persistent. When Anders sight first fell on a split box of lyrium potions, he made to grab one. And Justice stopped him. The spirit was unexpectedly cognizant of the risk drinking lyrium posed. A flat, heavy clang clipped the air, broadsword on armor. Not an improvement. 

Impulsively, Anders made to grab a potion half buried in the sand. His fingers spasmed as they had before, as if he dunked his hand in a bucket of ice water. 

_-Remove the arrow-_

Justices voice, calm and utterly without disapproval, was more alien than the wooden shaft protruding halfway down his chest. 

“I– I can’t–” Anders choked out. “Let me...help them...”

_-You will not help them dead-_

“But you could.” Lyrium would restore his cut off magic, give Justice access to the currents of energy swirling in eddies beyond Anders reach. Undirected, untapped magic that would, without a guiding mind, simply use him up. Attempts to heal with the arrow in his side would influence the properties of the arrow as well. It was a wooden shaft after all. Trying to grow organic systems in his current state was dangerous, he would regenerate both former tree branch and his torn organs. Tear himself apart from the inside out. 

_-I will not let that happen-_

Anders fingers slackened. He was good as dead, if he just could do this last useful thing he wouldn’t be the pathetic waste Justice told him he–

_-You are not a waste-_

Anders blinked.

_-We are not a waste-_

In the edges of his mind, the perpetual hum of spirit energy he lived with pulsed. Justices fervor, dedication so often turned to scorn, took a different flavor. 

_-I will not control you at the expense of our life. For me to move us now would stop our heart-_

Bewildered, dazed and approaching hysterical the boot that connected with the side of Anders head knocked him from hands and knees to land heavily on his side. He could hear Hawke yelling murkily as his ears rang. 

The man standing over him paused at Anders stillness. There was some laughter over their victory, then debate. 

“Can’t be worth much, these two.”

“You blind as you are stupid? That’s Kirkwall’s hero. Somebody’ll pay up.” 

“How do you know? Don’t dress like a noble.”

“Seen him before, haven’t I? He ran with a group of smugglers before qunari bastards burned half the city up.”

“Huh.”

“And that one?”

“Might at well bring the dwarf. Like to know where he found a crossbow like that.” 

“What about him?”

“Corpses aren’t good for anything. He’ll not last.” 

“Killed Ratguard, didn’t he?”

“Bad luck to kill a mage.”

“I don’t rightly care.” 

“Fetch the arrows at least.”

“Alright.” 

Anders listened with muted investment, leaning on Justice's occasional prodding to keep his eyes open. Torn boots approached, the man crouched and examined the arrow. Anders made brief, weary eye contact, the man's torn face slipping in and out. The bandit shrugged and finished what he came to do. 

Anders' leaking mouth was half full of sand, coarse and gritty granules that did nothing to muffle his scream when the arrow came out his back. The startled bandit tripped back, eliciting more laughter from his cohorts.

“Enough of that then.”

Another man strolled behind him to yank the arrow the rest of the way through, repeating the process on the arrow in Anders thigh. Then they left, carousing and arguing over the state Hawke must be in to fetch the higher ransom. Missing fingers did not seem to be a deal breaker. 

Anders listened to the fading voices, until there was nothing left but the rain. He was completely drenched, but the smack of droplets on his face gave him something to hold onto beyond his sluggish heart beat, traitorously pumping hot blood out of his side in waves. 

_-Look for a potion-_

Lyrium. Justices reminder was a small thing, not goading, with a shade of concern. Anders squinted, pushing an unsteady hand thorough the damp sand. When his fingers brushed a tube, he was shaking so badly the vial tipped further away. 

Nearby footsteps crunched. Anders' fingers weren’t responding. Throat raw, side burning, tears cutting down his face, the mage squeezed his eyes shut, hard. If he could just _reach_.

As Anders fingers worked around the glass, another hand covered his, prying the flask away. Anders couldn't make out more than a dull outline as they uncorking the potion. 

“Here.”

He hadn’t spoken with the boy since they met in the clinic, but Anders could differentiate between a man's voice and a child's. Several dubious seconds passed, the kid seemed to realize the mage wasn’t about to sit up under his own power and take the offered potion. 

“Um, here I- I can help.” The boy set the potion down and gently pulled on his shoulders. Together, the best they could manage was Anders propped against a crate.

He needed help with the potion too, fumbling the vial as it was handed over and spilling the vicious blue. It trickled over his bloodied knuckles, running along his wrist. The kid took over, guiding his hand up and timing sips between the bouts of coughing. 

Anders could taste the film of half rate lyrium on his tongue, but even a diluted potion had useful properties, if slow to build. Like a key being pressed in a lock that didn’t fit right. Anders grappled with the effervescent obstacles, insubstantial barriers. Justice waited patiently. The boy spoke no more, resting on his knees and offering sips when Anders nodded. Blood continued to seep between white fingers he clenched over the wound in his side, he couldn’t feel his legs.

Eventually, between pained breaths and the darkening damp, it clicked. A floodtide of energy, raw and unconstrained, burned him cold to the core. A layer of magic Anders rarely tapped, bursting with soundless music, blank novels, draining inkwells, scattered papers. 

_-Focus-_

How could Justice not see the allure? Couldn’t a spirit comprehend how blinding power was reason enough to let go? Wasn’t this the better solution? 

_-Focus on healing-_

Anders faltered. Wasn’t this his life to give? 

_-This cause is lost without you-_

Justice was the cause, a guiding force, a final push. Anders knew he was nothing more than distraction. 

_-Hawke would be lost as well-_

Hawke could do better. 

_-I would be lost-_

Time, unusually courteous, suspended a few seconds as Anders mind skittered to a halt. Physically he was numb, from the rain or the blood loss, he couldn’t tell. In the space between spaces, magic was coalescing and converging in a span of defiantly nervous energy. In his mind, Justice repeated his sentiment.

“Do you need more?”

The boy's question reminded time it had a schedule to keep, broke the elasticity of the moment. Anders shook his head, barely. Maybe he didn’t need more reason than those given. Maybe he was enough. More than enough. 

With a careful breath, Anders reached for the unruly energy, channeling the cast as best he could. The design wasn’t perfect, but for the first time in months his intent was icy clear. 

Blue light curled from his palms, the boy drew back. Anders spell held the capacity to work, but the mage was fading fast, wild tides fighting back until Justice exerted his will. Abruptly, currents shifted and filed in to delineate the directions. Torn organs melded, skin knit. 

As suddenly as it began, the light flickered out, mana depleted. Two vials of lyrium later, and Anders gratefully let the boy pull him to his feet. The mage was unsteady and uncertain of how long he would last subsiding on lyrium alone, but some facts were nestled firmly in his mind between the thrum of his heart and dizziness on standing. 

Justice needed him, relied on him as more than a cage of flesh and bone. The work he had done on his side and leg would not last long: temporary healing was a shortcut he did not often use, but one that granted a little time to find a solution. Hawke and Varric were in five kinds of trouble, and the night’s rain had no intention of letting up. And lastly, most concretely; he would destroy everyone that came between him and the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was late, I am sorry. I have made a few critical errors in calculating work/sleep/writing ratios. Namely the part where working 7 days a week does strange things to the mind. 
> 
> this will end. I will not leave it forever unfinished. I swear it.


	9. The Next Morning

“A caravan of that size has protection Danton,” the woman in grey stressed, folding her corded arms. 

A man dressed in matching leathers shook his head, water trailing off his hood. “Had protection, Rev. Had. They spent coin on our hero, and look what that got.” He nudged Hawke with the point of his boot. 

The warrior remained a limp, dead weight piled at Danton’s feet next to Varric. His light armor was digging into his chest at odd angles; an uncomfortable, unexpected boon. Captors who didn’t know to strip a fighting man of his armor were not destined to be captors for long. 

“Four carts you say?” Another piped up, beyond the plane Hawkes slit-eye view of the rocky beach afforded. 

“At least,” the boy said, breathless. Clouds were tainting from black to grey, Hawke had barely made him out as he came skidding down the path with news of another caravan.

“At least? You forget how to count?” Rev was not dissuaded. 

“I wasn’t sticking round for them to see me, was I? You rather I get caught?” Despite standing a head shorter than the bandit leader, the boys disapproval was acrid. “You hired me to be fast, not quiet.” 

Her eyebrows rose incrementally. “Whose catching you if they didn’t have guards?”

“Rev, that’s hardly important. I’m sure the boy did his best.” Danton stepped over Hawke like he would driftwood on the beach, heel catching on his shoulder. “Didn’t you, Micah?”

Micah glowered, chest rising and falling rapidly. “There’s a caravan on the eastern way, loaded, and set to pass the Narrows Ridge. No cover to speak for on that stretch, so I came back. Do what you will.” He tipped back his chin defiantly, one hand twisting something small between his fingers. 

“I don’t like it,” Rev said. 

“You wouldn’t like Micah if he returned with an armload of gold and the map to a dragon’s corpse,” Danton said, words rolling like a marble across silk sheets. He placed a hand on Micah’s shoulder. “Just because the boy has a sister waiting doesn’t mean he can’t put eyes on a wagon or four.”

Micah shrugged off Danton’s hand, bristling. “Keep off.”

“Facts remain,” Danton spread his hands wide. “We’ve lost three crates of lyrium thanks to our friends, and this ransom you hope for may or may not pay off our debt to Kelt.”

“The risk is on your head,” Rev stressed, pushing a gloved hand through her dark hair, matted by the rain. “I’ll stay with the heroes; your crew is your own.”

Danton inclined his head. “Settled.”

Micah nodded, tugging at the straps securing a knife to his belt and taking several wide steps away from Danton, closer to Hawke. Other bandits busied with the same, a total third of the company. The boy frowned. 

“That’s all?”

“To take an unarmed caravan? I should hope so.” Rev growled. For half a heart beat, Micah hesitated. The moment passed, he shook it off like he had Danton’s hand, scattering water collected on his cloak and dropping the feather he had been spinning. Rain caught the feather, driving it into the sand a few inches from Hawkes nose.

The feather stuck point first, like a quill. In as long as it took Hawke to put _feather_ and _jacket_ together, Danton’s crew completed preparations and left in a lose herd. Amid the disorganization, the coarse rope constricting Hawke’s wrists and ankles began to heat. As discretely as possible, Hawke rolled to better hide his hand bound behind his back. 

“Awake, are you?”

Discreet was not the best word to describe a man Hawke-size squirming around in armor. No point denying, the warrior sat upright on his knees with a huff. 

“Is this really necessary?” Hawke said, giving the the slowly charring rope a careful tug. “To be tied up with the rest of you armed? Does terrible things to my back.”

“Spare us,” Rev said, hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “I have questions. You will answer them.” 

“You’re very direct. I like that.” Hawke said, throwing on a wide smile. 

She didn’t blink. “What is the caravan transporting.”

Hawke shrugged, rolling his eyes skyward to study the ashen cloud cover. “This and that. Probably more that than this.”

Pelting rain picked up in a gust, battering those assembled and dampening the fledgling fire eating his bonds. Rev signaled a green cloaked figure to her left. With a flick of thumb and forefinger, an invisible blade scored a deep gouge across Hawkes cheek. 

Pain escaped in a tight hiss between clenched teeth. 

Rev swiped errant hair from her eyes, mouth drawn. Where some of the bandits were made thin by rain sodden clothes, the cloak hugging Rev’s form cut a harsher figure from the crowd. Wind pulled at the fastenings tight across her chest and waist, billowing her coat back from heavy pants. 

“I make no habit of asking twice.” 

“Of course not.” Hawke said. The bands on his wrist flared, stronger, singing his forearms and the cuffs of his pants. The warrior’s smile was all teeth. “Cut rate mercenaries and a pathetic excuse for a mage couldn’t be that difficult to tame.”

The mage slashed the air and Hawke’s shoulder in synchrony, slick pain curving down to his bicep. 

“Payson.” 

“But-”

“Enough.” Rev said, never raising her voice, never taking her eyes from the warrior bleeding in front of her. 

Her eyes narrowed as a stream of smoke thickened behind Hawke. Lightly dropping her hand from the hilt of her sword, Rev turned and violently grabbed her mage by the throat, bringing him inches from her impassive face. 

“What part of ‘enough’ was lost on you today?”

“I’m- I’m not-” he spluttered.

It was the distraction Hawke needed. Yanking at the weakened ties he freed himself and rushed the closest of the 30 odd bandits. With a startled yelp the girl went down, head bouncing off a rock. The warrior snatched her knife, gripping the wet handle as an incantation started dividing skin on the back of his hand before veering wildly. 

A scream, familiar crack and flash. A bandit stopped to gape, Hawke cut him down and put a rocky outcropping to his back. 

Lightening crashed, tinged with the electric otherworldliness of the fade. In the middle of the erupting fray, Hawke caught sight of Justice, tearing a quite literal path between adversaries.

Opponents buckled, Hawke fended off another man with cold determination. His shoulder stung, the warrior grit his teeth and nearly elbowed Varric in the face when the dwarf appeared at his side. 

“Friends everywhere,” Varric grumbled, hefting Bianca. “Lovely.” 

Hawke grunted his assent as he decked a boy venturing too close, unsurprised Varric had run to aid Bianca before him. 

Varric lined up another shot, firing with deadly accuracy. “Think Blondie’s in there?”

From the moment his bindings flared, Hawke had been nurturing the faintest of hope that Anders had somehow, miraculously survived. The crowd of bandits was thinning, Hawke narrowly avoided an attack in his attempts to track Anders. 

Between the crowd Justice stood, a storm of ethereal blue. He was bearing down on the translucent bubble Rev’s mage was desperately maintaining. It didn’t last. The mage gave a short lived scream before his shield imploded with an audible squelch. 

“Traitor! You disgrace the name of mage!” 

Hawke swallowed. 

“That’s not a good sign.” Varric said, loading another bolt, expression grim. Death of their outlaw mage crushed the bandit’s leftover resolve. Hawke watched them scrambled to find cover climbing the rocky hillside.

“What are you?” 

Amidst a pile of smoking bodies, Justice stood with his boot on Rev’s chest. Through the rain, the crystal blue splitting Anders skin was blurred, his staff resplendent with blinding energy.

“Justice. You have earned this sentence.” 

Edging closer, Hawke's heart dropped. Anders stood ramrod straight; the fat, dark stains soaking his coat and pant leg were indisputably fatal. Fenris and Varric’s words knotted at the base of his skull. The spirit may have saved them, but it’s unpredictability would endanger too many in the future. There was one course of action left. 

“You’re a monster,” Rev hissed, wincing as Justice ground his heel into her sternum.

Quietly trading his knife for a sword, Hawke forced the bile in his throat down as he considered his options. Removing the staff was the first move, if he could sever Anders- Justice’s arm, they might stand a chance. 

Justice tipped his head to the side. “A monster to some. To the cowardly and criminal. To stand before Justice is to fall.” 

If Hawke was going to move, it had to be now. As Justice drove his heel into Rev’s chest, the warrior swung. With inhuman speed, Justice grabbed the blade, turning on Hawke as he kicked Rev’s corpse to the side. Blood from his hand ran down the swords edge, catching water droplets.

Hawke froze, certain he was taking his last breath when the light piercing Justice’s form vanished.

“Hawke?”

Golden brown eyes, wide and confused met the warrior's gaze. 

Anders. Undeniably, irrevocably, Anders. The mage stood before him, staring at Hawke as if they had never met.

“What are you doing?” 

He hadn’t let go of the sword, the blade wavered between them. Uncaring rain fell in sheets, warping the air and the sound of crashing waves.

“You...you’re alive.” Hawke said, faltering. 

The mage nodded jerkily. Hawke made to draw the sword back, Anders gripped it tighter.

“You thought I was dead.”

“Yes,” Hawkes voice was strangled. “I thought you were gone and Justice had- Justice was-”

“Justice was what?” Ander let the sword drop, hand curling into a fist at his side. “Justice was rescuing you? Saving you from- from-” Anders took a step back. “How could you?”

Hawke's mouth worked, no words came out.

“Justice is dangerous.” Varric cut in. Anders took another step, looking back and forth between the two of them. “He can be uncontrollable at times, even for you. A spirit roaming unchecked could cause incredible damage.”

Anders entire body tensed, ready to bolt. This couldn’t be happening. 

_-They are not wrong. Without you I have no limits. Do not blame them for their fears-_

Justices unexpected comment crawled across Anders mind and tangled discordantly with his panic. None of this made sense. His side spiked painfully, Anders wrapped his free hand around the recently closed wound.

“I thought you were dead,” Hawke said, desperate, as close to begging as Anders had never heard. 

“I’m not.” Self evident and unhelpful, Anders could think of nothing else to say. The adrenaline from Hawkes betrayal was slipping; Justices indifference was as off putting as the startling number of bodies littering the beach. “I’m going to...”

He trailed off, not sure what he was going to do. Hawke moved to help him but pulled up short as Anders leveled a glare at him. Justice stirred. 

_-To refuse aid is unwise. Hawke would never harm us. Only me-_

If there was logic to Justices words, Anders couldn’t find it. Hawke took another tentative step forward. “Anders, let me help. Please.”

Outnumbered inside and out, Anders couldn't find the energy to fight them both. 

“Fine.” Blearily, he remembered Micah’s warning. “I don’t know how long we have before Micah and the others return. Narrows Ridge is nearly a full nights travel east, but the story won’t hold.”

Hawke nodded, approaching. Anders expected the warrior to offer a hand, or begin rummaging through the bandit’s possessions for a health potion. Not for Hawke to close the space between them to nothing, to gently wrap his arms around him, gathering Anders in a careful hug as the mage stiffened.

It was the closest he had been to Hawke in weeks, his time in the mage underground and clinic claiming the waking hours.

Anders fell apart in pieces. First his staff, slipping from nerveless fingers. Then the tightness in his throat, releasing a lungful in hitching breaths. He sunk into Hawkes grip incrementally, melting by inches, eyes prickling. 

“I’m so sorry.” Hawke said softly. “I thought I lost you. I will never let this happen again.”

Grabbing ahold of Hawke, Anders clung to him like a lifeline. Hawke gripped him tighter, held him as he shook apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay anybody new to the train ride of angst I just got back will update soon this is not the end


	10. Two Mornings After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this went in a direction I wasn't anticipating, I updated the tags and everything. if you wanted a semblance of a happy ending, just leave it at chapter 9.

Sunlight, misty and damp beneath their boots, dragged the misshapen shadows of Anders, Hawke and Varric amid scraggly brush. The smell of wet smoke clung to the corner of Hawke's jacket that Anders had buried his face in.

“You don’t have to carry me Hawke.” 

“Andraste’s ass I don’t. I won’t have you toppling off another cliff.” 

Anders sighed, but left his cheek pressed to the warriors broad, unarmored shoulder. He let his eyes rove over the forest, darkened by the canopy of wet boughs. Light was divided into uneven shafts, catching on Bianca and slick rocks bordering the path. 

“There aren’t as many cliffs around here.”

“You’d find one, and fall right to the bottom.” Hawke replied, pausing to adjust his grip on Anders' legs. The mage was draped over him after a stumble in the early morning; an off step with his bad leg down a short embankment Hawke immediately labeled cliff. 

A stumble nearly three hours past now, when they broke makeshift camp at the crack of dawn. 

“Truly Hawke, the bleeding stopped.”

“Give it a rest Blondie. I’ve been trying to get him to carry me for ages, but no, there's always an excuse.” Varric, leading, waved a hand to illustrate the many unseen injustices. “Try and savor the experience.” 

Anders huffed and returned to seeking a comfortable position to rest his head. Honestly, his side hadn’t improved in the night, nor had mana returned. Justice, taking to his new role as less obtrusive settled to Anders peripheral without fanfare. They had both done what they could; what Anders needed now was a healer, dry clothes and a place to rest.

Leagues crawled by, Anders was halfheartedly dozing when Hawke ground to a halt. “Do you hear that?” 

Anders blearily peeked over the warrior's shoulder.

Varric nodded. “Yeah. Get off the path, I’ll check it out.”

Anders frowned, listening. It was difficult to hear anything beyond his heartbeat and Hawke's steady breathing. Plants with bending, catching branches snagged at his clothes as Hawke moved off the flat beat of the trail. Uneven footing jostled him, Anders fingers dug into Hawke's coat as his side shifted.

“Hold on for a minute,” Hawke said, giving Anders' good leg a reassuring squeeze. “Probably nothing.” 

From down the path, ‘probably nothing’ screamed. 

“Hawke.” Anders voice was gravely, he cleared his throat to try again. 

“Shhh.” The warrior was stock still, thinking, Anders was certain, of the long sword he left with his armor. Not that the dagger strapped to his leg was for show. Another shout, the unmistakable thwack of Bianca and a whuff Anders associated with summoning fire.

“Hawke.” Anders repeated, disregarding the shushing. “Varric needs help. I’m fine.”

Not entirely true, but a lie less transparent than the night before. 

Tired of being ignored, Anders started squirming. 

“Gha! Stop.” 

“No. Nobody's getting hurt because of me.” 

Before Anders could complete his bid for escape, Hawke knelt, lessening his fall. The landing knocked some air from his lungs; Anders pushed Hawke off, shaking his head. 

“I’ll be alright. Go.” 

Hawke glanced from the echo of an explosion back to Anders. “I said I would protect you.” 

“You are.” Anders shoved harder, hating the worry cutting across Hawke's face. “Now go.” 

Hawke left with nod, clasping Anders shoulder and ducking into the forest. For the second time in as many days, Anders listened for the sounds of combat. Unlike the coast, there was no cacophony of clashing steel and insults. Out here amid the trees, a dangerous game of lurking and striking had begun; long pauses, harsh exclamations. 

Sitting and waiting had never been a strong suit. Less than a minutes of squinting between the broad surrounding trunks and wind stirred shadows passed before the mage was fumbling to his feet. His leg threatened to buckle, the palm of his hand stuck to sap dripping along grey bark as he slid. 

Leaning against the tree – for cover of course, not to disguise how his leg was shaking – Anders waited. To his right, a shout. Swearing followed, and three men darted out of the surrounded wood. 

They barely paid him a glance, running flat out, chests heaving. One of the men wore a smoldering jacket, his steps kicking up slick loam in his frantic bid for freedom. Anders opened his mouth, forgetting his missing staff, but words hadn't formed when Fenris came charging out, cleaving one man from shoulder to hip. 

The elf’s back swing splattered Anders with a line of blood before the man on the ground was silenced with a second arc of Fenris' muddy blade. Oblivious or uncaring of Anders presence, Fenris continued his pursuit of the enemy, markings flashing as he disappeared between the trees. 

Anders stared belatedly, hot blood staining as it spread across his ruined coat. 

Had he not spent the morning dozing on Hawke's shoulder, not lost pints of blood so recently, Anders might have recalled why a hostile group on the trail stretching between Narrows Ridge and the Wounded Coast could be expected. He might have considered a warning for all the good it would do addressing Fenris. He might have taken any token attempt to aid his conscience. 

But he was sleep drunk, and dizzy; Justice blurry at the back of his mind from his aid in the mornings casting. There wasn’t a moment for proper thought when two more figures came barreling towards him. One smaller, one taller, careening off trees. 

The air to his left contracted, the shorter one veered towards Anders as a wall of flames erupted. Anders could feel the heat 30 feet away, blinked at the blinding torrent of fire that sprang into existence. 

“Bethany!” 

He shouldn’t have shouted. The figure backtracking from the fire swiveled, the booked it towards Anders. 

“Uh,” Anders heart rate spiked.

The figure closed the distance before Anders could properly panic. The mage braced his arms for a blow that never came. The boy skidded, stumbled and tripped directly into Anders, grabbing the front of his coat, head bowed. Anders gasped at the pressure on his side, pain flaring. 

“You have to help me!” Sweat ran down from dark curls, his dusty garb was singed. “Please!” he gasped, “tell them I’m not...not...” 

“Anders! Hold on!” 

Micah looked up, stared straight into Anders as the shout from behind took action. 

Fire, Anders learned over the years, could be shaped and bent in innumerable ways. Heat and combustion constantly strove for fuel, fickle and frantic. Cast correctly, intensity alone could cook a person from the inside out. Anders was knocked back by the force of the explosion, bouncing off the tree and remarkably keeping his footing. 

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” Bethany said breathlessly, jogging up. “Are you alright?” 

“You–” Anders jerked back, eyes glued to the charred corpse on the ground. The body was unrecognizable. From the skinny, tanned youth with nothing but fear in his eyes to an indiscernible lump of peeling charcoal in a heartbeat. A spell he cast hundreds of times. A spell he taught Bethany not two months ago.

“You killed him.” 

Bethany’s eyebrows drew together, concerned. “He was trying to kill you. My brother would never forgive me if I let that happen.” 

“He wasn’t.” Anders voice was strangled. “He helped me – helped Hawke and Varric escape. We would all be dead.” The smell of cooked flesh was rising, clinging to their clothes. 

“What are you talking about?” Bethany’s cheeks were losing flush, quiet in the woods around them grew prickling. 

Anders couldn’t speak. He broke a promise and for all the gutting grief there was no one to blame. There was nothing to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. There was supposed to be a follow up conversation between Anders and Bethany about the dangers versus benefits of magic but the dialogue tasted forced. Is this a warning? Is this unnecessarily depressing? Should I have finished it? 
> 
> probably. but I'm running out of time and wanted to post something conclusion-ish and I've never written unhappy endings. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Tune in next time for something less depressing! Perhaps an entire follow up story! Who knows! If this is entirely unacceptable throw me a comment and I'll try...something.


End file.
